In Finem
by freshneverfrozen
Summary: The Warden-Commander was not a hero; she was not a well loved paragon of humanity. She braved the Archdemon and enemy hordes for Ferelden but at Amaranthine she is reviled by most and betrayed by a few. Luck, however, runs out even for the brave and time runs out for the one man who cared for her. She has gone where he cannot follow and in the end, only goodbyes are left. ONESHOT


__**Well, I've always said the best way to cure writer's block is to...well, write. I was having so much trouble with my Hobbit fanfic that my nerd bone started itching. So I popped DA: Awakening in my woefully dusty xbox. Then I remembered how much I love, love, love Nathaniel. This was inspired by the attempted assassination scene but obviously it's AU given the premise of this story. **

**I would really like to have made this a short series but with my "Bear-Man's Daughter" fic, I've got too much on my plate. So, it's a sad little oneshot.**

**Maybe I'll add some vignettes later if anyone is interested. This type of angsty/tragedy caters to only a few of you, I'm sure. Regardless, I hope you enjoy. This story takes place after Origins and during Awakening.**

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_Impossible._

_Wrong._

_Foreign._

The damnable bolt was all of these things. It should not be there. Nathaniel Howe had to touch it – had to _feel _it – between his fingers to believe it. Maker, it was real. Tangible wood and steel.

Somewhere a voice cried out. Maybe it was Anders. Maybe it was Nathaniel himself. It was not the Warden-Commander.

No, not her. She had not made a sound since that ugly bolt had silenced her. Silenced her forever.

Hero.

Elf.

Friend.

Dead.

Nathaniel knew her to be all of these things and more. All around the two of them, the melody of war-metal sang nearby. The sulfuric tang of magic poisoned the air like a foul perfume. Voices twisted in a choir of fury, fear, excitement, pride… and then Grief joined the battle-field litany unbidden. One man, one sob, one heart clinched at the sight of that damnable, ugly, _real _bolt.

The thudding of bodies dropping lifelessly to the floor ended the song and a victorious silence took the melody up where it left off. Hands, some bare, some gauntleted, _all _of thembloody, scrabbled at and around Nathaniel. The rogue bitterly resisted them and not even Seneschal Varel and Captain Garevel together could pull him back. It was not until the dwarf – that stupid, vile dwarf – had latched firmly onto Nathaniel's legs that he was restrained.

In his struggle he had somehow managed to look away from his Commander, failing her for the second time that evening. He had looked away from her not ten minutes earlier and it had cost her life. Looking away meant that he had not seen the bolt or the crossbow trained on her. He certainly had not seen the Antivan Crow that wielded it. The Warden-Commander had trusted him and _only_ him to be her right hand and he'd had the arrogance to fail her. Now, the Hero of Fereldan was dead. His friend was dead.

Anders, with his smooth hands and shining hair unmussed from the fight, dropped to his knees beside the body. There were many bodies now. The mage knelt by the only one that mattered. He had the audacity to look aggrieved, to openly wear a mask of disbelief and shock. Just as Nathaniel had done, Anders reached tentatively to touch the heart-buried bolt.

Nathaniel roared at the mage's transgression and renewed his struggle against Varel and the others. Oh, how the Warden-Commander had _hated _Anders, hated him more than she had even hated that pompous fool, Alistair. Never, _never_, no matter the state of her wounds had she let the healer lay one of his delicate fingers on her. Nathaniel would not see that change now.

With the strength of a man enraged, the rogue tore loose from Varel, tore loose from Gareval and Oghren.

"Away from her, mage!" Nathaniel boomed.

Anders only just had time to move, his honey eyes momentarily flashing with hurt. He and the rogue had become hesitant friends over the past few months. The Howe spawn had been thought to be long past his days of snapping at the mage.

Regardless, Anders moved away all the same. He and the others watched sadly as the rogue resumed his rightful place at the Warden-Commander's side. Her right hand. Her confidante. The only one in all the world deemed worthy for her to call "friend."

But he was none of these things to her anymore, nor would he ever be again.

With a woeful murmur hardly heard by those nearest him, Nathaniel braved the Warden-Commander's wrath – a wrath that would never come – and dared to gather her limp body in his arms. She was so cold. She had never been cold all those times he had dreamed of holding her. But she had never been dead either.

Oh, how she would have railed against him for taking her up like some priceless, fragile bobble. But she was priceless and so very fragile…and now she lay broken at his feet.

"Go," Nathaniel breathed and the others shuffled, "Go gather the remaining Wardens. Clear out the bodies." His voice bore the same gravel hers had whenever she gave orders. _'Question me,' _that voice had said, '_at your own peril.'_

"Nate –" Anders began quietly, ever the arguer.

"Now!"

A few flinches and any questions died away. His Commander would have been proud. But that did not matter now.

It was only as the others cleared out – feet shuffling, heads bowed – that Nathaniel lifted her, sparing her the humiliation of letting them witness such a moment. She was so light, so small in his arms. He wondered now if her Dalish bones were hollow like those of a bird. The only weight at all seemed to come from the bolt in her chest.

Small and cold. Nathaniel clenched her tighter as if to protect her even in death. It was a short walk to the exit of the Great Hall and Nathaniel only caught himself as his shoulder pressed against the door.

Wrong door. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

This door led to the Keep's left wing, to her quarters. So used to coming this way, he had not thought…Nathaniel had to pause, squeezing his Commander's body tighter against the memories of all the times he had pushed this very door open. Each time his gut would be heavy and swirling in anticipation at seeing her. But that anticipation had always settled with a knock on her door. Always standing by the room's lone window, the one with the best view of the forest, she would turn, scowling until she saw that it was him. That scowl of hers would fade and so would his anxiety.

But there was no anticipation or anxiety now, only numbness. It was the wrong door. He should turn, go to the _other _door, the one that led to the infirmary. A single, cloudy thought gave him pause. He had never known his Warden-Commander to go to the infirmary. Wounds bleeding, bones broken, she would drag herself up to her room and either treat herself or make a healer – not Anders – come to her. She had always been one to suffer on her own terms, her own playing field.

And so, Nathaniel made that walk with her one final time. There was no need to knock when he reached her door but he did so anyway. Just one quiet rap of his knuckles before shouldering the door open.

The room was spartan in its accommodations and pristine in its simple order, just as she had left it. There was no armoire, for she had no dresses. Only an armor stand and a small chest-of-drawers for the basics. No couch, just three chairs - one facing the window and two in front of a fireplace that had no wood. The first time the third chair had appeared, Nathaniel known it was for his benefit and had made the mistake of commenting on it. Incensed, the Warden-Commander had promptly asked him to leave. After that night, his chair went unremarked upon and he had been allowed to stay.

This time Nathaniel bypassed the chairs and crossed over to the bed. White sheets. Green blanket. No comforter. Gritting his teeth, he hesitated to place her atop it. It seemed a trespass against the dead woman. In all his time spent in this room he had never been so near her bed, had never been allowed any farther than the chairs. Now, here he stood at the bed's edge with her lifeless in his arms. His gritted teeth clenched so hard he thought they might shatter as he steeled himself to release her. Gently, he lay her down, letting go of her body for the first and final time.

The movement had sent the Commander's hair into her face and it seemed natural to brush it away. Tugging off one leather glove, Nathaniel reached but his fingers stilled suddenly not an inch from the pale shock of hair. He was reminded of the first moment he had laid eyes on her in the dungeons of the Keep. Even then he had not been able to deny that she had beautiful hair. Not dark and coarse like his but fair and soft. Only Nathaniel knew that her hair had been the Commander's only concession to femininity. Her hair had been the symbol of her trust in him. He had realized it one evening when he'd knocked at her door and she had called him in. He had found her not scowling but brushing her hair. Like a fool, he'd watched, entranced, as her scarred and ugly hands had worked the brush through the long length of the strands. He had not been so foolish as to say anything and had retreated to his chair to watch in silence until she had finished.

Now, Nathaniel drew his hand back and the hair in the Warden-Commander's face went untouched. The appendage fell to his side, seeming as lifeless as the woman it had been drawn away from. Such a touch was reserved for a lover and he was not her lover. Fellow Warden and companion? Yes. Lover? He would never be such. So it was that he knew he should do what fellow Wardens and companions do.

The rogue would have liked to have said that his hands did not tremble as he reached across his Commander's body to unbuckle the Dar'Misu at her side but he would have been lying. His hands shook until he thought he would not be able to get the short sword loose. If he did not manage it, one of the others would. Anders or Varel or one of the dwarves. To her, their sort would have made a mockery of handling the little elven blade. Nathaniel would not let such a thing occur and he promised her as much.

"They'll not touch your blade, Commander," he whispered. Speaking to her calmed him as it always had and his hands finally quit their infernal shaking.

Nathaniel knew his Commander would have laughed at him had she seen him shaking so. It would have been a cruel, cutting sound to those who did not know her as he did. But Nathaniel knew it would have been a rare amusement for her to watch her second-in-command fumble at such a simple task. She would have laughed but then, and only for him, would she have helped.

The buckle came free too soon and Nathaniel knew an end to his time with her would be near. He had only to finish this last task for her.

Softly, reverently, he lay the Dar'Misu along the middle of her body, its finely carved hilt pressed against the accursed bolt that had stolen her. He took her hands – those cold, small, ugly, _wonderful_ hands – in his and pressed them to the pommel of the little sword.

Nathaniel stepped away but though his task was complete, he did not leave. He _would_ not, _could_ not leave her. For when he did, the others would swoop in to gawk at the dead heroine and whisper false words of condolences. Anders and Oghren would not miss her. Varel and Garevel would not miss her. Not even Loghain, whom she spoke of often, would miss her when he heard the news. Only Nathaniel Howe would grieve her.

And when he was done, the Warden-Commander would be alone.

Her body would make the trip to Weisshaupt to be entombed there _alone,_ with only those long dead to keep vigil over her. For the first time since he had met her, his Warden-Commander went where Nathaniel could not follow. His time with her was ending now. But there was still so much to say! So much to do!

He wanted to tell her to wait, to not go, to hold on…but it was long past that. There had been no time, no final breaths in his arms that could have spared him an eternity of having _not _told her. He wanted to tell her that he had not come up to her quarters all those many evenings to deliver banal reports and speak of war. Now, as he stood over her body, he mostly just wanted to her he loved her.

But he would never tell her and his Warden-Commander would never hear those words from him. And so, the dead Commander's only friend slipped to his knees at her side and wept alone.

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**Ach! Woe is Nathaniel. That was a fun little exercise and I hope you feel as depressed as I do after reading it ;)**


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